


Lift

by Jolien



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Billy is the fastest SOB this side of the Mississippi, First Meeting, Gen, Snippet(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: Goodnight didn’t believe he would ever find someone like him. Until he saw Billy Rocks fly.





	Lift

Goodnight reached the dusty outskirts of the tiny frontier town just after the starting shot. The two contestants had already taken off, with the white man taking the lead. He stayed close to the ground, using the resistance of the air cushion underneath him to carry his glide.

The other one – he must be new – was flapping, trying to gain altitude. It was a stale day on the plains, not a single current stirred the trees, and he had to work for every foot of lift. His long, dark hair flew in time with his pumps, fluttering in the wind on the upstroke.

Mumbles rose from the crowd. The white man was halfway to the finish line already, while the Oriental had barely made it five yards.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I bet ten against you,” a young man to Goodnight’s left mumbled, to the delight of his cackling friend.

 _Just wait_ , he thought, not bothering to turn. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but there was a particular kind of tension humming over his skin, like the trickle of sand-laden wind.

The Oriental reached the highest point of his arch and spread his wings. He hung there for a moment, a dark shadow against the glaring sun, stretching and stretching until his leading edge was almost one straight line, all the way to his primaries. They trembled in the hot air.

Then he wrapped, drawing his wings in and _in_ , folding, close around his body, and nose-dived like a dolphin. He plummeted at the sharpest angle, wind whipping around him, only protected by the feathers tucked close to body, the wrists of his wings curled to shield his face.

Even just watching, Goodnight could feel the sickening whistle of the wind in his ears, and the raw pressure against his coverts.

He sliced through the air like a knife – no, faster than that: a bullet, black lightning. He caught up to his opponent in heartbeats, distance made void by altitude and sheer, neck-breaking speed. Holy shit, he was fast.

Yard after yard shrunk away under his shadow. He was still half falling as he took the home-stretch, at level with the tree tops, and spread a little, catching the velocity in his secondaries.

His opponent refused to be outmatched. He was beating his wings furiously, whipping up road dust and dried grass as he tried to catch up, but the Oriental zipped over the finish line with seconds to spare.

He kept going until the referee’s whistle rang out, officially marking the end of the race. Only then did he spread, abruptly raising his wings high from the horizontal angle. The wind slammed hard into the bend of his secondaries, trailing edge fluttering under the strain of braking from hunting-speed to a full stop in two breaths. He almost didn’t manage: he had to pull up just before crashing into a tree-trunk, jerking himself into a steep climb. But he caught himself, flapping once, and landed gently on the ground. His boot-clad feet didn’t even stir up a puff of dust.

The crowd was dead silent.

Then someone whistled. “Damn!”

The Oriental turned, the grin on his face as sharp as his teeth, and waved.

A cheer rang out, then more. The men and the boys and the few women who had come to watch the performance called over each other and a child shrieked, delighted. Everyone but Goodnight: he could do nothing but stare, slack-jawed, at the man’s shining midnight wings.

He hadn’t dared to suspect it before – in flight it was hard to see – but they were burnt like charcoal: spilled ink with a glint like the edge of obsidian, reflecting the sun like a shard of glass. He’d thought it impossible, spotless feathering, and yet not a single colored barb broke his plumage: it was black, black, black.

Like Goodnight’s own.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea popped up. Not sure what I'm going to do with it...


End file.
